


Five Days

by Swordy



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Altissia, Angst, Blind Character, Blind Ignis Scientia, Blind!Ignis, Canon Disabled Character, Chill XV, Did I mention angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Game Spoilers, Gladio/Ignis, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Recovery, Sexual Content, handjobs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-12-09 08:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11665461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: Advisor. Strategist. Chamberlain. Confidante. Ignis needs to figure out how he can be all these things again to Noct after the events in Altissia.His biggest obstacle? The man who owns his heart: Gladiolus Amicitia.Set after the events of Chapter 9. Can stand alone or be read as a sequel to'In Altissia'.





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> As soon as I played through the events of chapter 9, I was fascinated by how calm and collected Ignis was in the face of such a life-changing injury. What it really made me want to know was what he was like in the days before Noct woke up...
> 
> I was always writing this story, but it became Gladio/Ignis thanks to the lovely Sauronix and her ridiculously persuasive story telling!

Pain; that's the first thing he notices. Initially dull, but then growing in waves - only this is a tide that flows but never ebbs. It is a fire that catches hold, increasing in intensity with each passing moment, because everything in its path welcomes its ruinous touch. The second thing he notices is sound; it might be voices, but it's difficult to tell over the roar of physical agony that continues its ascent. The voices - yes, they _are_ voices - sound harried, urgent. Panicked, almost. Someone needs to instil order, his forte undoubtedly. _Are they waiting for him to take charge?_  He can't work out where to begin, which is terrifying in itself. He prides himself on his acumen, always the one able to assemble a plan, even in the most pressurised situations, and yet his thoughts take flight like scattered, frightened birds.

Where is he? To answer that he tries to recall what came before. Mercifully, this feels easier. They're in Altissia, of that much he's certain. Noct. Leviathan. The Covenant. The Empire. The beautiful city being brought to ruin around them. The memory is so strong he’s certain he can still smell the fires. Then after… nothing. Ordinarily, his memory never fails him, but in place of where those recollections should be, there is nothing but unending blackness. He breathes, desperate to gain a measure of control, but his heart rate is escalating and at that moment, he hasn't got the self-discipline to counteract his rising panic.

Something is pressing down on him, stopping him from moving. His natural instinct is to fight it. He wants to tell it to stop, that it's making the pain _worse_ , even though he'd never thought that was possible thirty seconds ago. He tries to form the appropriate entreaty, but the words are drowned out by a pitiful howling sound.

It takes him a moment to realise that the noise is coming from him. Horrified, it takes him another moment - too _long_ a moment, given his suffering - to drop back into blessed unconsciousness and the thankfully pain-free emptiness of oblivion.

 

TBC...


	2. Day Two

His return to consciousness is more gradual this time, but no less confusing. He becomes aware of others in the room, hearing sharpening as the seconds pass, so that their conversations go from unintelligible noise to things that contain actual words. What he can't work out is why his vision doesn't do the same. His pulse quickens, he takes shaky breaths, his body begins to ready itself for fight or flight, even though he's no idea what he'd be fighting or fleeing from. Suddenly strong fingers grip his arm.

"Iggy, it's okay. You're okay, you're _safe_.”

Gladio. The voice is unmistakeable, but it does little to quell his rising panic. The fingers on his arm dig into his flesh. Sometimes Gladio forgets how strong he is.

“Ignis, _please_.”

This does it, although it's not the use of his full name that halts his movements; it's the fear and desperation that edges the words. The noises in the background have now stopped; there was a sound which he belatedly realises was a door clicking shut.

“Gladio,” he says hoarsely. He swallows. “Why can't I see?”

The hand on his arm relaxes incrementally, the touch now one of support rather than restraint. He's glad for it, something physical to anchor him to a world he feels completely detached from.

“You were injured,” Gladio replies, and once again there's that _something_ in his voice that seems more pertinent than what he's actually saying, but frustratingly, he can't grasp the nuance. “You just need to heal.”

He forces himself to concentrate on his breathing, willing himself to relax. He can't focus, can't _think_ , when there's chaos in his mind.

“Your face is bandaged; they covered your eyes.”

Okay, this is reasonable. He reaches up to touch his face and finds Gladio is telling the truth. He presses on the bandages. There is significant padding over his eyes.

“Careful,” Gladio cautions, and there's that slightly strangled quality in his voice again.

He lowers his hand back to the bed, feeling exhausted. The silence plays out for a moment. It appears he and Gladio are still alone. Dread creeps up on him, knowing the question he must ask next.

“What of Noct?”

“He's okay. The covenant took it out of him, so he's been asleep since we found him.”

Gladio pauses for moment. There'd usually be a joke at this point about how much Noctis likes to sleep, but the gap remains unfilled.

“But he isn't injured?”

“No, he's okay. The doctors have checked him over. He'll be fine.”

“Prompto?”

“He's okay, too. He's sitting with Noct.”

“And Lady Lunafreya?”

The pause this time has no room for misinterpretation. He exhales slowly, more tired than ever. He wonders if Noct knows or if this information will greet him on his waking. He has to be ready; Prompto is undoubtedly Noct’s closest friend, but news of this magnitude has to come from him.

“Hey,” Gladio says, as he pushes the bed clothes back. “What d'you think you're doing?”

“I must prepare for when Noct awakens.”

“ _Ignis_. You’re injured, _badly_ , remember?”

“Irrespective of my own wounds, my duty—”

“ _Fuck your duty!_ ” Gladio yells, temper flaring in an instant. He jumps at the sudden vehemence, too loud given Gladio’s proximity to him. His movements still. Pain flares beneath the bandages as he lowers his head back to the pillow. He grimaces involuntarily.

“Sorry.”

Gladio's contrition is genuine and it douses the flames of his anger. The king’s shield places a hand on his arm again, even though he doesn't remember him taking it away in the first place. His touch is gentler this time, strong fingers caressing rather than holding.

“I thought I'd lost you,” Gladio says, his voice low and uncharacteristically fragile. Gladio’s hand moves down to his so that their fingers are locked together. Evidently, he was correct about there being no one else in the room, for this is the Gladiolus that no one else gets to see.

For as long as he can remember there has been something between them. Something impossible to define or quantify or rationalise. Something born in the intense tutoring of their youth and the long, sweat-filled days of Crownsguard training during their teenage years. Something they have furiously kept from everyone around them - easy, really, given there was nothing that marked the quiet, studious advisor-in-training and the loud, fun-loving shield-in-waiting as anything other than casual acquaintances.

Back in Insomnia, this need for concealment had been with good reason. The king’s counsel would never have allowed Prince Noctis’s two closest advisors to have been… involved. Involvement would mean distraction from their respective roles, and the consequences of discovery were too grave to bear thinking about, given the amount of time and effort they had spent in preparation for their duties.

Even ‘involved’ seems the wrong word, though. There is affection, tenderness, companionship, sometimes intimacy. Even between themselves, they don't describe it as a relationship. They don't have terms of affection for each other; they are just Gladio and Ignis. They have their respective titles, but none which link them together. And that suits them both fine because what they have doesn't need defining. They understand it; the world doesn't _need_ to.

Even Noct and Prompto, people they both consider their friends, are none the wiser as to the real nature of their feelings for one another. It's better that way. Less complicated. So they allow the status quo to remain, no matter how inaccurate it is. Noct and Prompto tease Gladio for sleeping with everyone and they tease Ignis for sleeping with no one.

“When I found you,” Gladio continues hoarsely, “I thought you were dead.”

“But I'm not,” he counters calmly, squeezing Gladio’s hand. “Fortune favours me, it seems.”

Gladio doesn't respond to that, which sends something cold and jagged coiling in the pit of his stomach. Beneath the bandages, his face feels as if it's on fire. There's something Gladio's not telling him. He tries to focus on the fact that Noct secured the covenant with the Hydraean, but it's a Pyrrhic victory, which, as Noct’s advisor and strategist, represents no victory at all. Lunafreya is dead. The responsibility for this cataclysmic failure is his.

“What you thinkin’ about?” Gladio asks, eventually.

“Lady Lunafreya.” When Gladio doesn't say anything, he sighs. “I feel… responsible is the wrong word, but I should have seen _something_ that would have indicated the jeopardy she was in.”

“By helping Noct secure the covenant?” Gladio sounds slightly incredulous.

“By being in Altissia; all of it.”

Beside him, Gladio shifts. He doesn't let go of his hand, but there's a frigidity to the touch that wasn't there moments before.

“And Insomnia falling? Is that on you too, Iggy?”

“Gladio…”

“No,” the shield growls, anger flaring suddenly. The emotion is misdirected, but not unexpected - they've both stoically and silently born the weight of loss for so long now. This simple road trip to see Noctis wed has culminated in the deaths of the friends and loved ones that they left behind in the crown city. Now they must contend with Noct’s intended suffering the same fate. With his own injuries, the seriousness of which are yet to be determined, but which Gladio will be apportioning himself some of the blame for.

“We didn't know any of this was going to happen, Iggy. I'm done with you thinking you need to shoulder all the fuckin' burden, okay?”

He doesn't want to be at odds with Gladio, not now when there is already too much to grieve for. The throbbing behind his eyes crescendos into something white-hot. He breathes, but it's more of a gasp, and Gladio instantly reins in his fury. His level of control is astonishing sometimes.

“You need something for the pain,” Gladio states firmly, as if he's preparing for an argument about this as well. He sounds worried, and... and there's that note of something again in Gladio's voice, but he's too tired and in pain to question what it is. He puts his hand to his head, realising he can't tell if his eyes are open or closed beneath the bandages. He tries not to think about what that could mean.

“I believe I do.”

As Noct's advisor, he should be thinking about more important matters, such as where they go from here, but allowing this minor distraction is possibly the best and only way to head off an argument that neither of them need right now.

"I'm gonna go get the doc. Hold on."

Gladio lets go of his hand. Booted feet then move away. The door opens and then closes and the sound of a muted conversation can be heard outside of his room. He makes no attempt to follow it, instead wondering about where they even are. It doesn't smell like a hospital. It feels utterly remiss of him not to have asked, and he would berate himself for the lapse, if only he had the energy to do so. The door opens again and Gladio’s footsteps return, bringing with them another set. He wishes Gladio would take his hand again, but he doesn't, instead hovering by the bedside as the newcomer - a doctor he presumes - does his work.

Almost instantly there is blessed relief, but with it comes the overwhelming desire to sleep. He suspects Gladio’s brief conversation with the medic outside is responsible for the anaesthetic effect of the pain relief. Maybe Gladio is trying to avoid any further conflict, too. He can't bring himself to be angry with him, though. Not when sleep will allow him to evade this hellish reality for a short while longer. 

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments everyone! They really do give my lazy arse a good kick! :)


	3. Day Three

_Altissia. Darkened skies, heavy with rain. MTs - too many MTs. And then…_

_“You're a little far from your charge aren't you, Mr. Scientia? He could be in mortal danger.”_

_And then…_

_"Your intelligence... You'd be such an asset to the Empire, if only it weren't for your... misplaced loyalty to the Lucian royal family.”_

_And…_

_“You see, I found myself wondering about how would Noctis would fair if he couldn't see one step ahead anymore. And that gave me an idea."_

_And…_

There's pressure on his arm; someone is shaking him vigorously.

“Iggy, hey Iggy, wake up.”

He inhales sharply, heartbeat a wild staccato. The hand on his arm lets go. He reminds himself to breathe.

“Sorry. It sounded like you were having a bad dream there, buddy.”

Prompto. He sounds hesitant, worried. Prompto is a terrible cards player, his pokerface all but useless. He wears his heart and everything else he is on his sleeve. Right now, he sounds nervous, despite his attempt at levity; probably wishes he was still sitting with Nocti—

“Noct,” he gasps.

“Still sleeping,” Prompto answers quickly.

Relief courses through him. He reaches up to his face and finds the thick dressings still in place. Fragments of the dream remain - reflexes and emotional responses to something abhorrent, bile in his throat, but the fragments are dispersing already and he can't remember _why_ they're making him feel this way. Only a dream.

“Where's Gladio?” he asks, pushing himself up on his elbows. There's a squeak - the chair beside the bed - as Prompto presumably stands up. Prompto doesn't physically help him up, but when he goes to sit back, his pillows have been rearranged to support him better.

“He was sitting with Noct and then he had to attend a meeting with the first secretary.”

He ignores the bitterness this information brings - _it should be me in that meeting_. “Then you should be sitting with Noct.”

There's a pause. He visualises a shrug. “The big guy said you'd wake first.”

True or not, he still thinks Noctis should take priority, however, he doesn't want to appear ungrateful.

“Well, I appreciate your being here. It's a little disconcerting waking up, unable to see.”

“Hey, no problem,” Prompto replies, then stops.

He realises he's getting the same feelings of awkwardness from Prompto. He's telegraphing it, just as Gladio was. Even without sight, he knows it's there, framing every interaction. For a second he wonders if they're lying about Noct, but he discounts that just as quickly. Gladio would never lie about something of that magnitude, and Prompto would never be able to hide it, even though it's clear that he's making an unsuccessful attempt to conceal something.

“I realise, that I have absolutely no idea where we are, Prompto,” he says, deciding to give his companion an out, even if only temporarily. “It seems too quiet to be a hospital.”

The chair creaks, Prompto shifting in his seat, always moving.

“Oh, uh, yeah, we’re at The Leville. It wasn't damaged, and since you and Noct weren't in any danger, it made sense to bring you both back here.”

“And the rest of Altissia?”

Prompto sighs. “It took a hell of a beating, unfortunately.”

“Leviathan?”

“Partly. The Empire probably did most of it though.”

He nods. “The Empire… are they responsible for Lunafreya’s passing?”

There's a brief pause before Prompto speaks. His voice is flat; it's clear this part of the story is true as it obviously pains him to tell it.

“We’re not sure. I guess Noct will be able to tell us when he wakes.”

“So he doesn't know she’s gone?”

“We don't know.”

As Prompto is responding, there's the sound of the door opening from across the room. The footsteps that follow are unmistakable.

“Hey,” Gladio says, although it's unclear who it's aimed at. Then: “How you feeling, Iggy?”

“A little better, thank you. How was your meeting?”

“It was okay….” He wonders if Gladio is giving Prompto a pointed look, like this is information the other man shouldn't have shared. “The first secretary will ensure we have safe passage when we need to leave.”

“If you’d postponed it, I could have attended with you. As Prompto has kindly pointed out, we're at The Leville because neither myself nor Noct are in immediate danger health-wise.”

“But you're supposed to be recovering. There's no rush for you to get back out there; not while you're still injured.”

This provides the opening he needs. “Speaking of which, I would appreciate if you could summon a physician.”

“What? Why?” Gladio says, his tone changing instantly. “Do you need something for the pain again?”

“No, no. I believe it’s time I have more information about my injuries, so that I can begin to plan our next steps.”

In the silence that follows, it’s easy to visualise Prompto and Gladio exchanging glances, confirming his suspicions that the elephant in the room belongs solely to him.

“Gladio?”

“Uh… yeah, okay. I'll see if I can find someone.”

He hears Gladio go out of the room, leaving him alone with Prompto, who radiates a nervous energy, even on a good day. Now, he's practically vibrating, the soft shift of his clothes and the almost constant squeak of his boots on the tiled floor indicating that he isn't standing still.

Fortunately, the awkwardness is brief as Gladio re-enters the room. He's expecting Gladio to say he can't find anyone, but there's the sound of someone unfamiliar clearing their throat as they approach and take the chair Prompto was in up until recently.

“You've asked to see me, Mr. Scientia?” the doctor says. He sounds older, a little like Clarus Amicitia.

“Yes, thank you for coming so promptly.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“I wish to know the nature of my injuries. Please speak plainly; there is nothing to be gained by shielding me from the truth, no matter how unpalatable it may be."

“Are you happy with your friends being present while I speak with you?”

“Certainly,” he replies.

"Very well," the doctor says. There's a sound of shuffling papers. "Your injuries appeared quite extensive when you were first brought in, but fortunately most turned out to be superficial cuts and bruises. You do, however, have some serious burns to your face, although I'm pleased to report that these are healing well. Obviously, the most significant injuries are to your eyes."

There's a pause and that gap says as much as the words that follow it.

"Your left eye was completely destroyed; the scar tissue on your face has effectively sealed it shut and there's little point doing anything to remedy that."

He nods tightly. "And the right?"

He hears the doctor exhale slowly. "It also appears to have sustained some damage. The eye itself is intact, but... at this stage it's impossible to say if you'll see with it again. I'm very sorry."

When nothing follows, he nods again.

"Thank you, doctor. I appreciate your candour."

"I'll return shortly to look at your dressings, but if you have any further questions now, I'd be happy to try and answer them."

"No, it's fine. Thank you."

The chair squeaks as the doctor stands and his footsteps take him out of the room. To his left, he hears a shaky exhalation. Prompto. Gladio hasn't made a sound, but he still has this _presence_. He turns to where he assumes Prompto is standing.

“Prompto, I think someone should be with Noct. Would you be so kind as to return to his room so that I can speak to Gladio.”

“Hey, you got it,” Prompto answers, and although he doesn't quite run, it's still a fairly speedy exit.

There is silence once Prompto’s gone, filled with a tension that rarely comes between them. Someone must have opened a window as he can hear voices on the street below. For a moment he tries to tune into their conversation, wonders if this is what his future will be like, relying so strongly on sound. He turns his attention back to the matter at hand.

“Did you know?” he asks.

Gladio heaves an exhausted-sounding sigh. He comes and sits down heavily in the seat the doctor has just vacated.

“No, but I had an idea,” he admits. “I was the one who found you and brought you in, Iggy. I… I saw what you looked like. I knew it was bad.” Gladio hesitates for a moment, then says, “Do you remember anything about how it happened?”

In his mind, there is a flash of a memory - _the rain-soaked battlefield, littered with destroyed MTs. A tall figure, smiling down at him._ Maybe just a remnant of his dream. Can't say for definite. He shakes his head.

“I recall us deciding to split up when the drop ships appeared. After that… I don't know. It's just blank.”

“Hey, it's okay, Iggy.”

The frustration must be evident in his voice as Gladio’s hand finds his shoulder. The squeeze is simple, the gesture meant to reassure. Gladio is still in official duty mode. He wishes they were alone with no risk of interruption, as he really needs something more.

He sighs, goes to rubs his eyes, then remembers. His hands drop to his lap.

“I need to get out,” he says wearily, not sure where that thought even came from.

“What? You can't!” Gladio shoots back.

His eyes might not work, but he's pretty sure he's pulling off a glare, the effects of which are sadly lost beneath the bandages. Gladio’s comment stings, igniting his indignation. He’s not sure if he even _meant_ it, but Gladio’s opposition makes him determined.

“Tell me precisely why not. I don't recall the doctor saying there was anything wrong with my legs.”

There's a sensation of movement, Gladio gesticulating, now the one frustrated.

“But you can't _see!_ ” Gladio says at the same time as someone knocks and quickly lets themselves in.

“Uh, sorry to intrude,” Prompto announces. He sounds anxious; presumably he heard the tail-end of that exchange. “But the doctor wondered if he should check on Noct while he's here.”

“Yeah.”

“Most certainly.”

He and Gladio answer almost simultaneously. Seizing this opening, he adds, “As the king’s shield, you should also be present, Gladio, especially while Noct is still indisposed.”

It's a dismissal loud and clear, but one Gladio can do little about, because duty will always win out for both of them. He gets up and goes without saying anything.

“Prompto? Are you still there?”

“Yeah.” Prompto’s footsteps come closer. “What's up?”

“I wonder if I may ask you a favour…?”

OoOoO

With Prompto's help, thirty minutes later he's dressed. What seemed like an excellent idea at the time, particularly in the face of Gladio’s opposition, now seems less brilliant. He's up and ready to leave the room, but he's utterly exhausted. Pride dictates that he keep that to himself, though.

“Ready to go?” Prompto asks, breaking into his thoughts.

“Indeed.”

He smooths over his shirt, before his hand instinctively goes up to his hair. Prompto, given his own talents with gel and a comb, has attempted to recreate his usual style around the bandages, but obviously he has no way of knowing how truly successful he's been.

“You look great, Iggy,” Prompto says, as if he knows where his mind has gone. He smiles at the fondness in the other man’s voice.

“Well, shall we go then?”

They've barely taken five paces out of the room, his fingers lightly gripping the crook of Prompto’s elbow, when another door opens just ahead of them. He knows who it is - there's no way they'd have set Noct up in a room too far from his own - and his heart sinks a little. After all, another confrontation with Gladio is hardly what he needs right now.

Although, maybe Gladio has reflected a little and changed his mind about it not being a good idea.

“Where the hell are you two going?”

Or maybe not. He breathes, hopes he's facing Gladio; knows that, beside him, Prompto will probably be wilting in the face of Gladio’s ire. He stands straighter, a mix of confidence and defiance.

“I believe I told you I needed to get out for a little fresh air.”

“And you think this is a good idea?”

He's about to respond, when Prompto says, “Sure, why not? Being cooped up in a hotel room isn't my idea of fun either” - and he realises Gladio wasn't actually addressing him. He's surprised by the tone in Prompto’s voice. It's not rebelliousness - simply, a certainty that he's doing the right thing.

“Gladio. I'm simply wanting to walk for a short while and Prompto has kindly agreed to assist me. Believe me, I'm aware that my body is still healing, and we won't stray more than a few hundred yards from the front doors. Surely, you won’t object to that?”

He hears Gladio's huff of annoyance, can easily picture the expression on the other man's face as he does it.

“Fine. But if you're not back in thirty minutes, I'll be coming to find you.”

It's an idle threat - Gladio would never leave Noct unattended to run around Altissia on such a trivial matter. He simply smiles and nods.

“Consider us fully briefed on the matter.”

He re-takes Prompto’s arm and together they head for the elevators. He allows Prompto to push the buttons, even though there's a part of him - small, yet terrifying - that says he should be getting used to a life without sight.

The lobby of The Leville is quiet. There are several people talking and with his mental map, he knows they're standing near the main desk. Prompto said the hotel was undamaged, but there is still an atmosphere that wasn't here before; it’s somber and cold, awash with shock at what has befallen the city. No one greets them as they pass.

They head out.

As they walk, Prompto maintains a quiet commentary, describing everything that they pass. In his mind’s eye, he can see it all, albeit less damaged than it probably is. Prompto keeps his pace even, and never forgets to mention any changes in terrain that would otherwise cause him to stumble. Still, it's utterly draining, and the concentration required creates a headache that gnaws at his skull. When Prompto suggests that they stop for a rest, he readily agrees.

Mercifully, the pounding in his brain lessens once they're seated. Prompto goes to order them some drinks, and it's all so ordinary, sitting here in the glorious sunshine that for a moment he can pretend nothing has happened. Noct and Luna will still be wed. Altissia is still whole. His world is darkness, simply because he's taken a moment to close his eyes.

“Here you are,” Prompto announces. There's a thunk of something being placed on the table in front of him and then his hand is guided to hold it safely. “They didn't have any Ebony, but it's strong and black, so I figured it was better than nothing.”

“Thank you, Prompto,” he replies, as his companion drops into the chair opposite. He takes a moment to enjoy the aroma and the warmth between his fingers, then says, “So who did you know who was blind?”

“What?” Prompto asks, surprised. “How did you…?”

He sips the coffee. Prompto’s right; it's not Ebony, but it helps right his world just a little bit.

“You know what to do,” he answers simply.

“Oh.” He thinks Prompto might be blushing a little. “My grandmother. She was born partially-sighted, but went completely blind by the time she was fifteen. She was _really_ clear about what helped and what didn't.”

“Sounds like advice that I would benefit from learning.”

“Uh, but the doctor said your other eye could improve, right? My mom lost her hearing in one ear, and she said the other just learned to compensate.”

Of course the ever-sunny Prompto would take the optimist’s view.

“I believe that can happen, yes.”

He takes another sip of coffee as the sound of several sets of feet approach. Soldiers, judging by the synchrony of their movements.

“Ignis Scientia, advisor to Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum,” a deep, male voice says, “the first secretary requests your presence at her ministerial offices at your earliest convenience.”

He's heartened to be right. He places his coffee cup back on the table.

“Very well; we’ll come at once.”

“Now?” Prompto blurts out.

He's no idea what she could want, especially given that she's only just finished meeting with Gladio, but protocol dictates that it would be rude to refuse a formal invitation, especially when they may need her help going forward. He loathes being out of the loop, especially regarding official matters, so despite his tiredness and headache, he stands and holds out his hand, waiting for Prompto to fall into place beside him.

“Don't you want to get Gladio first?” Prompto asks quietly once they're walking. The pace is quicker this time as they try to keep up with the soldiers and his body protests the movements.

“I think we’ll be able to handle it ourselves,” he replies. It sounds more snappish than he'd intended, and Prompto doesn't say anything else in response.

He's sweating a little by the time they reach the ministerial quarter. The first secretary’s offices are blessedly cooler, and he's happy to sit and wait in the anti-chamber for a few minutes whilst the soldiers inform Camelia Claustra that he's here. It's an opportunity to collect himself, to give himself that mental pep talk that he is no less whole without his sight. Despite the caffeine hit, his headache is back with a vengeance.

“You okay, Iggy?” Prompto asks, from somewhere to his left, making him wonder what his face is telegraphing. “I'm sure the first secretary will understand if you're not feeling up to this now.”

“I'm fine, Prompto. Thank you for your concern, but I'd rather resume normal duties as quickly as possible so that we have a plan of action in place for when Noct awakens.”

“Well, okay. So long as you're sure,” Prompto replies, although he sounds a little doubtful.

It's difficult not to be irritated by that, but he says nothing because Prompto has been so good to him, and he knows that anything the other man says is only coming from a place of concern. Beneath the bandages, the healing skin is itching terribly. The doctor had talked about removing his dressings earlier, before he'd insisted on going for this impromptu walk. Maybe he should have stayed…

“The first secretary will see you now,” a man announces from across the room, his voice echoing slightly in the marble-floored chamber.

Prompto is at his side immediately. He's giving off that nervous tension whenever he's around anyone in authority, no matter how many times they've all assured him that he has more than earned his place alongside them.

“Mr. Ignis Scientia and Mr. Prompto Argentum of Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum’s retinue,” the man states as they enter.

He can still picture the first secretary’s office, knows Prompto is leading him toward the ornate polished desk that stands central within the exquisitely furnished room.

“Gentlemen,” Camelia says in greeting. “I appreciate you coming here so promptly.”

“We’re at your disposal, First Secretary. How can we be of assistance?”

“Please, have a seat.”

Prompto guides him to the chair and then takes his own.

“Firstly, let me offer my condolences, both on the loss of your highness’ fiancée and your own injuries, Mr. Scientia. I believe the physician who has treated you has advised that you may regain some sight in one eye?”

“That's indeed correct, madam. May I thank you for the outstanding care that has been given to both myself and Prince Noctis. We couldn't have asked for more professional and courteous treatment.”

Prompto remains quiet throughout this dance of words.

“Your gratitude is appreciated; Altissia is proud to stand with Lucis, and, as a small token of our appreciation for your help with the evacuation efforts and for the injuries you sustained undertaking those duties, I wish to present you with this cane.”

Her heels click on the marble floor as she rounds her desk and carefully places the item in question into his hands.

“I of course pray that you only require it temporarily, Mr. Scientia.”

He runs his hand along its lacquered surface, up to the handle, which feels ornate beneath his fingertips. Undoubtedly, it will be extremely valuable.

“It's beautiful,” Prompto says quietly.

“Thank you, First Secretary; this is most certainly a kind gesture, given my current predicament.”

“I'm glad you like it,” she replies, pleased. “Now, to the matter your colleague brought to me earlier, I have looked into it, and shall be able to provide you transport to your destination, but unfortunately there will still be a cost involved. Unavoidable, I'm afraid. I have, however, been able to secure you transportation for your vehicle, also.”

“Thank you. That's excellent news, indeed.”

He wonders what exactly Gladio has said to her about where they're heading onto next. He doesn't want to be angry with Gladio, but the other man is making decisions in his absence, when they haven't even discussed it amongst themselves. His head is beginning to pound.

“We’re grateful for any assistance you're able to offer us,” he continues. “Our only regret is that we couldn't spare your city more damage.”

“On behalf of the people of Altissia, I appreciate your sympathies, Mr. Scientia. Although we have never considered them our ally, the experience has fully opened my eyes as to the Empire’s intent and disregard for anyone outside of their control. We may have made ourselves an enemy, but I confess that I am somewhat relieved that I'll no longer have to deal with that odious Chancellor Izunia.”

The name instantly conjures the image of the man who had first introduced himself to them at Galdin Quay, all impeccable manners and quirky irreverence. ‘A man of no consequence’ he'd called himself. Without warning, he's hit by another memory: _the littered battlefield. The tall man smiling down at him._

Suddenly, his heart is racing, and he's finding it impossible to take in oxygen. Dimly, he's aware of the sensation of falling as he slips out the chair, and the sound of Prompto repeating _‘Iggy? Iggy!’_ with increasing desperation.

All of it is drowned out by Ardyn’s voice in his head. It's cruel and mocking, and it makes his skin crawl, as if the words are being whispered directly into his ear.

_I also won't insult your intelligence by saying this won't hurt…_

In that instant, he remembers everything, and with remembrance comes the awful realisation that any hope he had, no matter how small, is completely misplaced. In the last moments of consciousness, he is now certain of two things.

His injuries weren't accidental, and he will never, _ever_ see again.

 

TBC...

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone. Comments as always gratefully received. I love to hear people's thoughts about how the story is progressing. :)


	4. Day Three (Continued)

He's being carried - correction - he's being carried by _Gladio_. The man’s scent is unmistakable. He conflates the sensation of their bodies touching with memories of intimacy. When was the last time? Being constantly in close quarters with Noctis and Prompto makes it harder to be alone together than when they were back in Insomnia, even with the ever-present threat of discovery. Now, there is no king’s counsel to disapprove and punish them for having relations, yet this is hardly something to celebrate.

The last time was at The Leville in Lestallum. Both Noct and Prompto appeared to be coming down with a cold and they had the money to spare, so Noct had suggested they get two separate rooms, in the hope of keeping the virus from spreading. Understandably happy with the arrangement, they'd had each other’s clothes off almost the second they were through the door.

It's no effort at all to remember the heat of Gladio’s mouth on him, the hard plains of Gladio’s muscles as they flex with every movement. He pictures Gladio beneath him on the bed, his fingers splayed across Gladio’s chest, tattooed skin slick with sweat. He hadn't thought himself starved of touch; indeed, the mere concept of _craving_ another human seemed absurd and something he'd never have thought himself capable of, but being alone and naked with Gladio had awakened something inside him that had translated into those fevered kisses and touches. They'd wrought noises from each other, desperate and wanting, until they were both spent.

In the hot, sticky heat of the Lestallum evening, they'd lain together in silence. The clock across the room had ticked away the minutes as Gladio traced lazy lines across his bare back. Pulses slowed and sweat cooled. Eyes closed, he'd inhaled the scent of the man, allowing himself the fanciful notion that he'd be contented to stay this way forever.

“You okay?” Gladio had asked eventually, voice barely more than a murmur.

“Mmmm.” He'd not planned to say anything, given he couldn't pin down exactly what had him feeling the way he did, and he'd been loathed to spoil the moment trying to explain his intangible emotions, but then, “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

“It _was_ pretty awesome,” Gladio had replied, smiling. When he hadn't responded, Gladio had shifted slightly so that he could make eye contact. “Iggy?”

In the fading light, they'd studied each other for a moment. He could never tire of looking at Gladio with so much to appreciate. There were many who were drawn to his strong masculine features, but it is Gladio’s fierce intelligence that he loves equally. Few would believe Gladio reads as much as he does. Those who covert his strength and looks have no interest in his brilliant mind. Gladio would never be described as ‘bookish’, even though the adjective is an undoubtedly accurate one.

“You're starin’ at me,” Gladio had said, grin becoming wolfish. “You need your glasses back on?”

He'd smiled back. “I believe I can see you perfectly well without them for now.”

“Yeah, well. You're hot either way.”

He’d allowed Gladio and his gentle teasing to draw him from melancholia then. With hindsight, maybe he'd sensed that life was about to change forever, hence his uncharacteristic sentimentality. He'd never been able to put it into words, then. Pointless now.

“Gladio?” he groans, head twisting from side to side, which turns out to be a big mistake; the sensation of movement is nauseating. “You can put me down.”

“Not fuckin’ likely,” Gladio growls, his voice low. Presumably, they're still somewhere too public to be having this argument. “What the fuck d’you think you're playin’ at, huh?”

Even though he's not shouting, it's clear that Gladio is apoplectic with rage. It's in the aggressive thump of his stride, the grip of his hands. Astrals help anyone standing in his path to… wherever it is they're heading.

“I told you,” Gladio says, clearly not done yet. “I _told_ you, you weren't in any state to be leaving your room.”

He feels terrible, barely conscious if he's honest, but he can't let that one slide.

“If I recall correctly, you didn't want me to go out because I couldn't _see_.”

“Oh _fuck off_ , Iggy,” Gladio snaps. In amongst the aggression is weariness, like carrying this entire situation with Noct and Luna and Altissia and the Empire has depleted his reserves of diplomacy. “I'm not the bad guy here, okay?”

“Where’s Prompto?” he asks, teeth gritted against the motions that are making his head spin and his stomach lurch. He barely has time to appreciate the change in acoustics and temperature as they move inside a building before Gladio stops and leans awkwardly with his cargo in his arms. A low chime identifies that he's pressed the button for the elevator. So, The Leville then.

“I sent him straight back to stay with Noct,” Gladio replies, answering the question he'd momentarily forgotten that he'd asked. “You scared the livin’ shit out of him, you know?”

Excellent. Now there are two of them who think he's a liability.

He sighs. “I assure you, it wasn't my intention.”

The chime sounds again and after a beat, Gladio steps forward. He makes the same dipping manoeuvre to press another button, presumably using his elbow, and then straightens up before the elevator starts to ascend.

“Yeah, well. Thank Shiva he was with you. What in the hell possessed you to go see the first secretary anyway? You were supposed to just be gettin’ some fresh air.”

Of course. He was in the first secretary’s office. He tries to imagine what Camelia Claustra must think now. The thought makes his head hurt more. He rests it against Gladio’s chest and is relieved when the other man draws him in tighter.

Neither of them speak. They reach their floor and Gladio is on the move again, thumping down the corridor and into a room. His suspicions that he's back in his room are confirmed when he's set down gently on the bed. Gladio then pulls off his shoes, dropping them to the floor, before helping him out of his jacket.

“You need any painkillers?”

He does, but he doesn't want to sleep, and right now, he's not sure he can trust Gladio to provide him with what he needs, rather than with what Gladio _thinks_ he needs.

“No thank you.”

Gladio sighs. He doesn't appear to have sat down, which means he's still tense. He can picture him pacing, hands making fists that long to do damage as some kind of outlet for his anger.

“What happened back there, Iggy? Prompto says you were fine, and then you just started having some kinda seizure or panic attack, or something.”

He takes a moment to track back over the events. The first secretary… the cane presented as a gift and then… He inhales sharply.

“Iggy?”

Ardyn. Ardyn did this to him. Ardyn has taken his sight to score a point against Noct. And now-

“ _Iggy_ ,” Gladio says, so insistently it cuts across his thoughts. “You need to breathe slowly, okay?”

He hadn't realised that he was becoming distressed again, but it's a runaway wagon picking up momentum and once he's aware of it he can do nothing as he stands rooted in its path.

“Come on, Iggy!”

He's trying, he's _really_ trying, but evidently it's not enough because Gladio then yells, “Fuck, Iggy, _breathe_ , goddamnit!”

Belatedly, he realises Gladio is holding him by the shoulders - then, like Gladio realises this is not enough, he finds himself enveloped in a powerful hug. The firmness of the contact and the warmth of Gladio’s body help ground him and, slowly, he can feel a measure of control returning. Evidently, Gladio senses it too.

“Ssshhh, hey, it's okay.”

Hands rub up and down his back. They stay this way for an age, and yet it still doesn't seem long enough. He doesn't realise he's even spoken until Gladio pulls back and says, “Sorry, what did you say?”

He takes a breath and the words spill out before he can stop them. “Ardyn… Ardyn Izunia did this to me.”

He can sense Gladio still, breath held, can feel the other man's assessing gaze, can picture the horror on Gladio’s face as it dawns on him exactly what he's being told.

“ _What_? I… I don't—”

“To hurt Noct,” he says, seems he can't raise his voice above a whisper. “He used magic.” He swallows hard. “It's not going to get any better, Gladio.”

“But, but the doctor said—” Gladio starts, but the sentence never reaches its conclusion. The worst thing is the devastation in his voice. Gladio rarely sounds defeated, but he does so now. There's nothing he can say that will mitigate that pain or offer any hope.

“I'm blind, Gladio,” he says softly. “Forever.”

The words have a weight that even Gladio, with all his strength, cannot lift from them. He hears Gladio’s breaths, quick and shuddering, the other man coming undone in a way that he never has before, even after learning of his father’s death and the fall of Insomnia. Then, suddenly, Gladio’s hands come up to cup his face, carefully, in light of his injuries. The kiss that follows is equally gentle. As it concludes, Gladio brings their foreheads together and they stay like that, in silence, for almost a full minute.

“It changes nothing,” Gladio says fiercely, seemingly apropos of nothing, but not. “You hear me?”

“I do.”

Any follow up is lost to the tentative knock on the door, then Prompto’s slightly muffled voice.

“Gladio? The doctor’s downstairs. Do you want me to send him up?”

“Yeah.” Gladio calls back, as he pulls away. The loss of contact is almost painful.

“I don't need a doctor, Gladio. I assure you I'm fine; it was merely the shock of remembering what I previously couldn't.”

“Maybe, but the doc’s still checking you over,” Gladio replies, using the tone that brooks no protest. “It's not up for discussion.”

“Fine,” he sighs. “Let him in.”

OoOoO

The checkup is brief, and the doctor concurs that it was indeed a panic attack. Like he's been primed by the man himself, the doctor then echoes Gladio's words about taking it easy and the importance of getting rest. He nods, playing the acquiescent patient, although the medic’s words drift past him. Only when talk turns to removing the dressings on his face, does he force himself to be more present. Gladio hovers in the background.

He sits, stock still, as the doctor starts to carefully cut through the bandages. There's no pain. The outer layers come off before the doctor pauses.

“Are you ready?” he asks. “Please say if you need me to stop.”

“Thank you; I will.”

The hands that peel the dressings off his eyes are gentle. The doctor starts on the left across the ruins of his eye. He resists the urge to reach up and touch his face, instead trying to _feel_ what's there. Despite what he's been told, he tries to open his eye, but there's nothing - no sensation of movement as he attempts to make his muscles obey.

When the doctor turns his attention to his right eye, it's impossible not to hope that there will be something, some _miracle_ when the gauze is lifted. He inhales slowly as the pad is peeled back and waits for the darkness to end. Belatedly, he realises that the doctor is speaking to him.

“Okay, Mr. Scientia. Can you try and open your eye for me?”

He does as the man asks. He's half expecting it to feel like this eye is also sealed shut, but it opens easily. He blinks a couple of times.

“Now I'm going to shine a light into it. Tell me if you can see anything.”

He nods and waits. When fifteen, then twenty seconds have passed he wonders when the doctor is going to start. Then Gladio exhales a long, shaky sounding breath, and it dawns on him that the examination is already over.

“Nothing?” Gladio says, like he can't quite believe it. Evidently he wasn't the only one hoping for a miracle.

He shakes his head.

“It's early days,” the doctor advises. “There was no observable pupillary reaction to the light, but that doesn't mean to say there won't be any improvement. The bandages can stay off now.”

“Thank you.”

The doctor takes his leave. Even though they're alone, Gladio remains across the room. He tries not to read anything into that.

“What… what does it look like?” he asks into the void. He wonders why he needs to know; it's not like he'll ever have to see it for himself. The question brings Gladio closer, but he still doesn't make physical contact.

“It looks sore,” Gladio answers after a pause, which tells him nothing. Maybe the evasion is all Gladio can manage right now.

“Is it… repulsive?” he persists, “Am I going to frighten people if I go out?”

“What?” Gladio sounds incredulous. “Iggy, who gives a fuck what people think? I've got scars; you think I care?”

More equivocation. He doesn't point it out though. Gladio sighs.

“I'm gonna have to go, Iggy. There are more arrangements I gotta make. You gonna be okay? I swear, I'll be back in an hour.”

“ _Gladio_. I'll be fine. I'm going to take the doctor’s advice and get some rest.”

“Good.” The relief in Gladio’s voice is clear. “That's a good plan. I'll tell Prompto to check on you in case you need anything while I'm gone. When I'm back, we can get some food.”

“Very well.”

Gladio takes his leave. He hadn't been lying when he said he would try to get some rest, if only to score some relief from the panic simmering just below the surface. If he's left alone with his thoughts, he's not sure he'll be able to prevent them from overwhelming him completely. Conversely though, sleep could mean a return to the nightmare Prompto had woken him from that morning, which he's not eager to continue.

He realises he needs to use the bathroom and is almost relieved to have something practical to focus on. Swinging his legs off the bed, he checks first that he's not in any danger of collapsing before he starts to make his way across the room. His movements are cautious; even though he’s already familiar with the layout in these suites, it's still a very different experience without sight. His fingers ghost the wall. There's a moment of doubt because he thought the distance was shorter, but then his hand hits the doorframe and he knows he's made it.

The suite is tiled throughout, so there's no change under his feet when he steps into the bathroom, but the acoustics are notably different. He feels his way to the toilet and urinates - he hopes - without making any mess. Next, he finds the sink and washes his hands, the scent of the citrus soap filling the air.

When he's done drying his hands, he doesn't move. He's standing in front of the large mirror - would be staring at his own reflection, if there was anything to see. Somehow, it seems a fitting place to study his wounds.

His hands rise to his face. He starts on the right, fingers moving down from his hairline until he find the first anomaly. The cut bisects his eyebrow, maybe only an inch from start to finish. The hair will probably never regrow. Moving down, he lingers over the smooth skin of his eyelid for a moment before he finds similar wounds across his nose and over his bottom lip. The latter warrants additional exploration, and for a while he's lost in the sensation of touching something that is completely numb, in contrast with the highly-sensitive area surrounding it.

Almost a full minute passes before he's ready to repeat the process on the left side of his face. This time, he encounters destruction much sooner. Half way down his forehead, the landscape changes. He maps the terrain, smooth skin giving way to an unpleasant texture beneath his fingertips. He grimaces as he touches it, moving downward until he reaches his eyebrow. He's not expecting to find hair, but it's still possible to discern the arching shape of it in amongst the ruined flesh.

Similarly, when he moves lower, he encounters his eyelashes, although they're hard and bristly, the texture of them completely different to the ones on his other eye. He strokes on and around the eyelid, before he can bear the coarseness no longer. He cannot escape it immediately though; the wound continues onto his cheek, angled like a slash pointing down toward his neck. As his fingers eventually travel back onto smooth flesh, he lets his hand drop to the counter top. He stands for a moment, head bowed, and tries to recreate in his mind’s eye what these wounds must look like. No wonder Gladio wouldn't tell him.

He's not vain, but he dislikes the prospect of such a chaotic appearance. Gladio revels in his scars; to him they map his life story and they contribute to his fearsome persona, which is no bad thing as the king’s shield. But as Noct’s advisor…

He stops himself. Self-pity is pointless, particularly for something as superficial as his appearance. Gladio doesn't care what he looks like, so why should he? He takes a deep, centering breath. He needs to focus on his duties, show them that his value has not diminished any because of his injuries.

Done with his inspection, he makes his way back into the room. He remembers that all the suites have balconies, so he trails the wall, back the way he came until his hand grazes the glass doors to the outside space. The doors aren't locked, so it's simple enough to make his way outside and to feel for the furniture he knows is out here. He lowers himself into one of the chairs. It's a large scooped thing with cushions that envelope him as he sinks into them.

The breeze out here is pleasant, fresh from the Altissian sea. He pulls the chair forward slightly, able to tell when it is no longer in the shade. The sunlight slants across his face as he sits back down. On the streets below, the Altissian people are valiantly trying to move on. He will do the same.

At least Gladio will support him. For all the other man’s worry and determination to ensure he gets adequate rest, Gladio will understand his need to resume serving Noct as quickly as possible. Gladio understands what duty means. It's Gladio's life’s work as much as his own, and neither of them possess the ability to give it up so easily - death being the only true barrier. Reassured by this knowledge, he drifts off to sleep.

OoOoO

He wakes to Gladio shaking him gently. The sunlight has moved on, but he doesn't think he was asleep for long. Once again there is the question mark over why everything is still dark, and he wonders how long it will be before that doesn't happen.

“Sorry,” Gladio says. “You looked so peaceful, I didn't wanna wake you, but you also need to eat.”

He smiles. This is Gladio trying to get him well in the best way he knows how. He realises he can smell food from somewhere to his left. Kujata meat and... vesproom? Probably Altissian cuisine. He thinks about the recipe book he bought mere days ago when they first reached the city. The sudden thought of losing his ability to cook re-ignites that spark of panic, and he has to clamp down on it before it can grow into something that he's unable to control. Fortunately, Gladio has stepped back inside the suite and doesn't see how his smile has suddenly become more forced.

“Thought we could eat out here,” Gladio says as he re-emerges, and there's a sound of implements being laid onto the small metal table.

“Is Prompto joining us?”

“He's staying with Noct.”

Gladio disappears one final time. This time there's a sound of wine glasses and a heavier thunk of, presumably, a wine bottle.

“Okay, we’re ready,” Gladio announces. “I hope you're hungry.”

“I am a little.”

“Great.” He can hear the smile in Gladio’s voice and for a moment, it feels like maybe things will be okay after all.

OoOoO

The food is excellent and the wine gives everything a slightly dream-like quality to it. Afterwards, he'll realise he can't remember specifically what they talked about over the meal, but it did nothing to dissuade him from the certainty that once Noct was awake, they'd continue on their journey as before. They'd not talked specific plans, but, crucially, Gladio had always used the pronoun ‘we’ whenever the conversation had moved in that direction. The reassurance that he will not be sidelined is exactly what he needed to hear.

Gladio clears away the remnants of their meal, then - reluctantly it seems - announces that he should take over from Prompto, to give the other man a break.

“You should be getting to bed,” he says finally.

It's impossible not to try and read anything into those words. Maybe there is a wistful note there, after all. He wants to say, _stay with me, Gladio_ , but instead he nods his agreement and says, “Thank you for the lovely meal.”

Gladio goes, and with nothing else to do, he starts to undress. With his face the focus of his injuries, he wonders what the rest of him looks like. The doctor said superficial cuts and bruises and when Prompto had helped him dress that morning, he’d definitely felt them. Once he's down to his underwear, he runs his hands over his body, starting with his torso, then upper, then lower limbs. He finds a range of tender spots as well as some dressed areas. It doesn't surprise him. The MTs came in wave after wave until he barely had the energy to stand, let alone fight.

His exploration is interrupted by a soft knock at the door. He feels his way over, wishing there was a robe to hand.

“Hello?”

“It's me,” Gladio says.

He opens the door and lets the other man back in.

“I thought you were going to take over from Prompto?”

“I was, but he says he's happy to stay. He's playing King’s Knight and he's on a winning streak so…”

King’s Knight. He's never played as much as Noct or Prompto, but it's another item on the list of things that will now be either impossible or extremely difficult as a blind man. He swallows, and forces his mind elsewhere - not a difficult task when Gladio is standing so close.

“I mean,” Gladio continues, “you should get to bed; I'll sit outside and read.”

He extends a hand, relieved when it lands on Gladio’s arm and not dead space. “I'd prefer it if you joined me,” he says, his voice low.

Gladio makes a sound, deep in his throat. It's a mix of frustration and longing.

“You're supposed to be recovering.”

His hand slides down Gladio's arm. Gladio crooks his fingers as they touch so that they lock together. He gives an experimental tug.

“I know you'll be gentle,” he replies.

Gladio makes that noise again, but he allows himself to be drawn forward. It's possible to visualise the room so he's prepared when the back of his legs hit the bed. He sits and brings Gladio down with him, inhaling sharply when Gladio’s knee comes to rest snugly between his thighs. He pulls Gladio in for a kiss, the movements slow and assessing. It feels hesitant on Gladio’s part, like he thinks they shouldn't be doing this. His heart rate soars sharply at the thought of rejection. He doesn't know what he'll do if Gladio stops now.

His hand moves to the back of Gladio's head, fingers entwining in the long, coarse hair. It anchors the kiss, but Gladio is the one who deepens it and the relief when he does gives powerful support to his fragile confidence. With his free hand, he cups the growing bulge in the front of Gladio’s trousers, causing the other man to groan into the kiss.

“I want you, Gladio,” he says, when they briefly come up for air. Need is possibly closer to the truth, but he doesn't want Gladio to think him broken or desperate for a distraction from his current situation, even though that's probably closer to the truth than he'd dare to admit.

“Damn it, Iggy,” Gladio breathes. Their faces are so close, he can feel Gladio's lips moving as he talks. He starts to move his hand, feeling Gladio’s arousal twitch behind the leather. When Gladio doesn't say anything else, he stops the caresses and puts both hands to work on the fastenings that are keeping him from the sensitive flesh.

For a moment, he struggles without sight to guide him; the button is tight and he's unable to free it. Involuntarily, he makes a noise of frustration, a growl almost, and suddenly Gladio is kissing him again, like it's the hottest thing he's ever heard. Mouths still locked together, he triumphantly pops the button before turning his attention to the zipper that thankfully proves much easier to manipulate.

Experience has taught him that the size of Gladio's length and the tightness of his clothing means there is very little room to manoeuvre while he's dressed, so he breaks the kiss and leans forward slightly so he can push down Gladio’s trousers and underwear in one swift motion. There's a movement of air directly in front of him as Gladio steps back, and he's about to start worrying that the other man’s having second thoughts when he hears the thunk of boots hitting the floor. There’s then a rustle of clothing and the sound of a belt buckle on the tiles before Gladio moves back into the space he just vacated. When he extends his hand again, he discovers that Gladio has taken off his shirt too.

His mind recreates the image of Gladio completely naked. At the moment, he can still see it with crystal clarity. But in a week? A month? A _year_? He's always prided himself on his exceptional memory, but maybe he's been deluding himself. Maybe the details will grow hazy as the weeks pass. The location of scars, the precise colour of his eyes. The panic starts to bubble to the surface once more.

“Iggy?”

Gladio is speaking to him, his tone concerned. He realises he is frozen, hand still lying flat against the other man’s stomach. It drops to his lap.

Gladio swallows, then speaks. “Maybe we should stop…”

“No!” he answers fiercely. He can picture Gladio’s surprise since he rarely raises his voice. The moment is in danger of being lost. He doesn't need sight to appreciate Gladio, not really. The man’s physical appearance is only part of the equation that makes him who he is. He inhales his unique scent - sword oil and the shampoo he prefers - thinks about the feel of Gladio’s body under his hands, and reaches out again.

He worries that Gladio might be about to resist, but the other man comes willingly onto the bed beside him. Their bodies press together. Gladio commences his own exploration, hands and mouth hot against his skin. Gladio’s movements are cautious; his body is presumably a rainbow of bruises and abrasions that the other man is being mindful of. Eventually, he takes Gladio’s hand and guides it toward his own erection, bucking his hips into a touch that is frustratingly hesitant. Mercifully, Gladio takes the hint, and his hand dives beneath the waistband of his shorts to grasp the swollen length.

He gasps, throwing his head back, his remaining eye squeezed tightly closed. He arches his back as Gladio pushes down his underwear and strokes him firmly, before he reaches out to grip the other man's arms. He can feel the tension in those muscles, the _power_ in them as they flex with the movements. They've become well acquainted with each other's bodies over the years, so Gladio works him the way he likes, the speed of the strokes varying just as he becomes used to them. It's maddeningly delicious, all heat and friction. The bed creaks as Gladio shifts slightly. He starts when the other man presses a series of kisses to his chest before Gladio switches things up by reaching down to cup his balls.

Without sight, the unexpectedness of the movement sends him over the edge, and he comes hard and fast over Gladio and himself. The strength of his orgasm surprises him. They've used blindfolds before, and the increased sensitivity caused by sensory deprivation was exciting. This shouldn't feel the same. Shouldn’t feel _good_. It's confusing, which is not a state he enjoys being in. He ignores the flash of self loathing that curls within the pit of his stomach.

He reaches for Gladio, hand trailing over the other man's hip, then down. His fingers lightly brush Gladio’s erection, before he grips the length firmly. He gives Gladio one final kiss, then slides off the bed, his free hand reaching for Gladio’s to draw him into a sitting position. On his knees, positioned now between Gladio’s legs, he can feel the other man studying him. This is confirmed when Gladio cups his face, thumb stroking his non-scarred cheek.

“Gods, you're beautiful, Iggy,” Gladio murmurs.

The rawness of Gladio’s voice says it's not just idle flattery; nor is it an attempt to assuage his fears about his altered appearance. Gladio simply doesn't see the scars. He thanks the Six that Gladio is here, because he knows he'll make it with this man’s strength and support.

He reluctantly pulls away from Gladio’s touch because his mouth is needed elsewhere. He hears Gladio gasp when his tongue flicks across the head, before dragging a line from it to the dark curls at the base.

“Holy fuck,” Gladio breathes.

Strong hands grip his shoulders. Evidently, there's a large bruised area on the right one somewhere, because the pressure from the fingertips is a little painful. He ignores it and focusses on taking Gladio deep inside his mouth, swallowing him whole in one quick motion, which elicits a loud groan from the recipient.

He finds his rhythm, keeping it deliberately slow and teasing at first. He can feel Gladio willing him to go faster, but he resists the urge because the sounds he's wringing from the other man give him vital sensory feedback and complement the image he has in his mind.

Eventually, he increases the speed and brings his hand into play, fingers circling the base of Gladio’s shaft, holding it firm. Without sight, he's more conscious of the audible signs that Gladio is close, and he allows them to guide him until Gladio explodes in a single, strangled cry.

He works Gladio until he's empty. When he's done, there's a sound of bedsprings, presumably as Gladio flops backwards onto the mattress. He sits back on his heels, can't tell if Gladio is watching as he thumbs moisture from the corner of his mouth. He's awash with emotions that he's not able - or willing - to sort through right now, and consequently he's hit by a wave of exhaustion, scarcely able to believe that the events of the day have taken place over a _single_ day. He wonders if time will lose meaning with no day and night to distinguish it.

“Come on,” Gladio says, as a hand comes to rest on his shoulder, more gently this time. “Let’s get cleaned up and then you’re getting some rest.”

And he's not about to disagree. He's half asleep as he sits in the bathroom while Gladio does the honours with a washcloth. Once he has clean underwear on, he allows Gladio to lead him back to bed, this time to climb under the covers. Before Gladio can move away, he catches hold of his arm.

“Gladio?”

“Yeah, Iggy?”

For a moment he almost mentions the nightmare, but he decides against it. He would, however, like Gladio to stay.

“Do you have to go?”

Gladio breathes in a way that sounds a little like a sigh. There's a rustle of clothes as he bends to scoop them up. “I'm gonna go check on Noct and Prompto, but if Prompto’s happy to stay, I’ll come back.”

“Thank you,” he replies with a smile. “Somehow… somehow the darkness doesn't seem quite so absolute when you're near.”

He doesn't know what expression is on Gladio’s face, but his voice when he answers is rougher.

“I'll be back.”

He's unable to stifle the yawn that follows. “You have the key?”

Gladio steps away across the room. There's a sound of metal scraping on wood. “Got it. Now try and get some sleep.”

“I will.”

He’s not expecting it, but Gladio suddenly returns and presses a gentle kiss to his lips. He drifts off to sleep to the sound of Gladio redressing before he slips out of the room, impressively silent for a man of his size and stature. For the first time since he awoke into this godforsaken nightmare, he feels like the panic has receded slightly and, thankfully, the dream of Ardyn and his Magitek troopers doesn't return.

OoOoO

Something stirs him from sleep an indeterminate period of time later. He's still drowsy - the bed is possibly the most comfortable thing he's slept in since his own back in Insomnia - so he doesn't attempt to move, but he forces himself to concentrate, listening for whatever it was that woke him. He's beginning to think he imagined it, when Gladio’s voice can be heard again. He's speaking quietly and it sounds as if he's out on the balcony, but the night is still and his voice carries into the bedroom. He's on the phone and he sounds weary.

“Yeah, he's doing okay - well, as okay as you can expect him to be, given the circumstances.”

So that's the topic of conversation identified, then. His first instinct is that Gladio is talking to Iris, but the tone he's using doesn't sound quite right. He wishes he could hear the other half of the conversation, but, it turns out, Gladio's half is enough to put him firmly in the picture.

“Yeah, she's secured us transportation, so we only need the boat to get us a little further north to where we can board the train… yeah, we’re taking the Regalia. I don't think Noct would want to leave it behind…. So the plan is for you to take us there and head straight back to Cape Caem with Iggy. I've told Iris to expect him… No, not yet, but he's a smart guy, Cid. He knows he can't possibly carry on with us…. He's been a little better tonight, so I'm gonna talk to him in the morning.”

He loses track of the remainder of the conversation, the words buried beneath the thud of his heartbeat. He realises Gladio is ending his call, but fortunately the other man doesn't come straight in, so by the time Gladio slides under the covers next to him, he's able to successfully feign sleep.

TBC…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating - this chapter slightly ran away with me. As always, comments and kudos are gratefully received! <3


	5. Day Four

Gladio is gone when he awakens. He reaches across into the empty space, but the sheets are cold. He assumes it's morning, and hates that he doesn't know for definite. His phone can almost certainly be programmed to give the information verbally, and he needs to attend to this immediately, each small action a step toward regaining his independence. His first instinct is to ask Gladio to look at the settings for him, until his brain takes a sledgehammer to the wall in his memory that is keeping him from recalling last night’s events.

_He knows he can't possibly carry on with us…._

Gladio. He feels so foolish. How could he ever have thought that Gladio would have believed him still fit for duty? Despite the other man’s love and reassurance, he should have realised that Gladio’s priority would be to Noct and their bid to take on the Empire. Now he's injured, he has no place in that - in Gladio’s eyes, at least.

Ultimately though, the decision will rest with Noct. Only Noct himself can dismiss him from his service. Gladio can try and influence that decision, so the obvious answer is he must show Noct that his loss of vision is only a minor inconvenience that in no way hinders his ability to provide counsel and strategy in these tumultuous times.

He pushes back the bedclothes and sits up. The only way to prove his determination to go on - to Noct, Gladio _and himself_ \- is to demonstrate his independence. He makes his way to the bathroom counting the steps as he goes. Once there, he searches methodically until he finds a large, fluffy towel, which he places on the floor, in reach of the shower. It takes him a while, but he gets the water on and adjusted to his preferred temperature. Washing is simple enough, although he's careful to ensure that the needling spray doesn't hit his face directly. Next, he locates the shampoo by its scent. When he's done, he turns off the water and reaches for the towel, feeling relieved, accomplished and disconcertingly exhausted.

Clothes are next, and admittedly this takes longer. He finds his bag and grabs a handful of garments before taking them to sit on the bed. There, he methodically examines them until he's certain he has a complete outfit that won't look ridiculous.

He puts the finishing touches to his usual hairstyle - he hopes - then washes the gel off his hands, and feels his way back into the main room. He wonders where Prompto and Gladio are. It occurs to him that he’s actually hungry, so he turns his attention to working out how to remedy that. Going out to find food without assistance isn't really an option, so he decides to call the front desk. The hotel has been unaffected by recent events, so there's a possibility he may be able to get food via room service.

He feels for the phone and dials the number he assumes will put him through to reception. The call is quickly answered and a male voice says, “Front desk. Can I help you?”

“Oh, good morning. I hope you can. Is room service available at present?”

“It is, but we're running a reduced menu since some ingredients are proving difficult to come by.”

“I'm happy with whatever you have,” he answers, his stomach growling obligingly. “And coffee if you have it.”

“Certainly. What room are you in, Sir?”

Ah. He realises that he doesn't actually know. Maybe if he opens his door, the numbers will be embossed on it, or there might be a person in the corridor whom he can ask—

“Sir?”

“Oh, uh, my apologies. This may sound ridiculous, but I'm afraid I'm not sure. I'm with Prince Noctis’ retinue if that's any help?”

“Ah, are you the gentleman who was injured?”

“I am.”

“Leave it with me,” the voice says warmly. “I'll send someone up shortly.”

“Thank you. That's very kind.”

He doesn't have to wait long before there is a polite knock and a voice says, “Room service.”

Carefully, he makes his way across the room, feeling for the handle so he can let the hotel employee in. He acknowledges the brief slash of paranoia - the person on the other side could be from the Empire for all he knows - but he pushes it to one side. As a strategist, it's important to be prepared for all eventualities, but as a human adjusting to such a monumental shift in his circumstances, he can't allow himself to be paralysed by the prospect of potential danger at every turn.

“Thank you,” he says, opening the door and stepping to one side. “I wonder if you could be so kind as to put it on the balcony for me?”

“Of course, Sir,”

The voice is male. It doesn't belong to the person he spoke to on the phone; it sounds younger, but beyond that there's little he can ascertain about the hotel employee now crossing his room to the outside space. After a moment, he closes the door and follows after the man, listening carefully to try and make sense of what he can hear. He's heartened by the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee. When the sound of crockery being laid out stops, he realises that he has absolutely no idea of what he's been brought. _This is my life now._

“Could you possibly describe to me what there is? The gentleman on the front desk wasn't sure what you had available.”

“Oh - oh yes, of course.” The young man sounds slightly embarrassed that he hadn't thought of that. “There’s some cold meats, a small selection of fruit and some Altissian pastries and jams. Oh, and coffee.”

“ _That_ , I'd identified,” he replies with a smile.

For a moment there’s silence. He’s expecting the other man to take his leave, but he doesn't. He might be imagining nervousness from the small shuffling sounds, but then the other man blurts out, “Thank you, for what you did for us. My sister was one of the people you personally helped evacuate. She was very upset to hear you were injured.”

He realises he can remember little of the time before Ardyn captured him. They’d all been on evacuation duties, but he’s no memories to show for it. “Thank you. I trust neither she nor yourself were hurt?”

“No, we all got out safely.” There's another pause, and then, “Is Prince Noctis okay?”

He smiles and nods. “He will be.”

After excusing himself, the young man leaves, and he sets about orienting himself with a meal he cannot see. He sits down and carefully starts to feel for all the items described, including the cutlery. Using touch and smell, he examines the fruit, reasonably confident that he can identify each piece. The jams prove slightly more difficult and he's forced to guess a couple of them, but a quick taste test reassures him that his olfactory apparatus is intact. He pours his coffee, crooking his little finger over the rim of the cup to prevent him from overfilling it. By the time he hears the door opening, his breakfast is well underway.

“Oh, hey.”

“Good morning.”

He'd already guessed it would be Gladio. He's spreading a spicy marmalade on one of the pastries when the heavy footsteps arrive on the balcony. He continues with what he's doing, pleased that the other man has arrived when he is managing confidently.

“You're up and dressed. I was comin’ to see if you needed any help and if you wanted to grab some breakfast.”

“All in hand,” he says, smiling, even though inside something is coiling within his gut at the inevitable confrontation that must occur between them. “Help yourself to coffee.”

“Thanks.”

Gladio joins him, but doesn't say anything else. He tells himself Gladio is thrown by his self-sufficiency, his positive attitude forcing the other man to reevaluate his views on their current situation.

“How you feeling?”

“I'm well, thank you.”

He takes a bite of the pastry. In truth he has the makings of a headache, but he's not about to share this with Gladio, lest the other man take any weakness as validation that he's doing the right thing trying to sideline him. Once his mouth is empty, and he's subtly brushed across his lips for any stray flakes, he says, “Any sign of Noct waking?”

“Not yet. The doc keeps checking on him though. Says his vitals are good, so it's just a matter of time until he wakes up.”

He nods. The determination is apparent in Gladio’s voice, although who he's trying to convince is less clear. The conversation appears to be segueing toward what they do next, so he decides to meet it head on.

“And when Noct wakes,” he says, feeling for his coffee cup so he at least has something to do with his hands, “what do you think we should do next?”

It's a frustration not to see Gladio’s expression, particularly as he doesn't provide an answer straight away. Eventually he says, “well obviously it's up to Noct.”

“Obviously. But what do _you_ think our next steps should be?”

This time Gladio sighs. He can picture the other man rubbing his eyes wearily, trying to frame what he will say next.

“Honestly, Iggy? I dunno. If we need to go after the crystal then we’ve no choice but to head to Gralea.”

Gripping his coffee cup, he nods thoughtfully. “The logic destination would be Zegnautus. The crystal will almost certainly be there.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.”

“I have one suggestion if we’re heading in that direction. There are rumours of a royal tomb in Cartanica; we should stop there to investigate if the stories are true. Noct would benefit from all the royal arms he can get his hands on before we head to the capital.”

Every sentence he's uttered has given Gladio an opening to say, _hey, Iggy, I know you're not gonna be happy about this, but I think you should go back to Cape Caem_ , but he doesn't. He tries to tell himself that's because Gladio has changed his mind, but the realist in him knows it's because Gladio just doesn't want to broach the subject. The angry part of him says that makes Gladio a coward.

“Yeah,” Gladio replies. “That's not a bad plan.”

“Let us hope Noct wakes soon; I doubt the Empire will be standing idle while we wait for him to rejoin us.”

“Mmm.”

Although nothing's been said, he can feel a distance between them. There is a conversation that needs to be had, but they're wordlessly circling around it. He wonders if Gladio can feel it too. Normally he'd be the one to broach the issue, never a fan of letting things fester, but as he stands at the cliff edge, he can't even see what the consequences may be. The irony isn't lost on him. Later then.

“Gladio, I'd like to go and see Noct, if I may.”

He winces inwardly - how many ordinary phrases, how many simple figures of speech will remind him of his new reality as a blind man? If Gladio has noticed his unfortunate choice of words, he doesn't say.

“I’ll take you.”

“Thank you.”

He feels for a napkin and dabs at his mouth, the action hopefully providing a clear indication to Gladio that he is ready to leave. Evidently it works, as Gladio's chair scrapes on the floor and his booted feet move around the table so that they’re side by side.

“Do, uh, do you um, need me to...?” Gladio begins and almost instantly he finds himself wishing for Prompto and the other man's less self-conscious manner of offering help. He shakes his head.

“If you’d be so kind as to pass me my cane.” He offers a smile in Gladio's general direction. “Since this is my future, I should be making every effort to get used to it.”

“Don’t say that, Iggy,” Gladio says softly.

He can’t decide if Gladio's comment indicates he’s hopeful or just in denial. Neither will change his situation though. He settles the cane in his grip and nods.

“Let's go.”

In silence they leave the room together. Since they're not engaged in conversation, he uses the opportunity to focus on his other senses. Gladio is on his left, arm crooked so that he has something to use as a guide. His cane is in his right hand, held out in front of him. He moves it in an arcing motion, searching for obstacles even though Gladio is unlikely to let him crash into anything. The floor is carpeted, deadening their footsteps; he assumes they’re passing other rooms, but there’s no sound from behind their doors.

“We're here,” Gladio announces, stopping and turning slightly. The cane bumps a surface, presumably a door. Mentally he stores away the information he’s collected about direction and the number of steps because if he’s to regain any kind of independence, then he needs to pay close attention to these kinds of details.

There’s a change in the air and the slightest creak of a hinge and he automatically moves with Gladio as the other man steps forward. It’s fascinating to be aware of the acoustic differences between the suite and the corridor outside. He tries to recall what the room looks like in terms of its layout, but fails. The Leville prides itself on the fact that none of its suites are the same either in style of decor or arrangement of furniture so knowing his own room is zero help. He allows Gladio to lead until his thighs bump against what he assumes is the bed.

“Lemme get you a chair,” Gladio says, and he waits patiently until something touches the backs of his legs. He feels for the seat and sits down, laying his cane on the floor beside him.

For a moment he’s at a loss what to do. With sight he would be carrying out a full visual inspection of his charge, alleviating his concerns that he may not be getting the full story about Noct's condition. Frustration bubbles within him. He lowers his chin to his chest and focuses on maintaining his composure with Gladio present. He can do this, he _can_.

Tentatively he reaches out, his fingers finding the gloriously soft comforter. He moves on, leaning forward slightly until he finds the edge of a body - an arm lying still. Noct's skin is reassuringly warm beneath his touch. He follows the limb upward until his hands rest on Noct's upper arm. Somehow he can feel Gladio's gaze on him, but the other man remains silent. His hands' journey ends as he leans further still and places them both on Noct's chest, finding comfort and reassurance in the steady rise and fall of one who is sleeping deeply.

“He's okay, Iggy,” Gladio says softly. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

The words are like a blow, bringing him back to himself. In all fairness Gladio hasn’t actually _lied_ , but his inability to start the conversation they must inevitably have feels like a deception all the same.

“Is the doctor still checking on him regularly?” he asks, returning to more practical matters.

“Yeah.”

He nods, reluctantly pulling his hands away and curling them into fists in his lap. Panic wells within him again. _I’m no use to Noct anymore. How can I advise him like this? If I make a mistake, I could get him killed_.

“Iggy? You okay?” Gladio asks, his voice resonating with concern.

He forces a smile, turning to where he believes Gladio to be standing.

“I am. Thank you for taking good care of him while I’ve been indisposed.”

Gladio doesn’t respond to that. After a moment, Ignis nods, holding Gladio with a gaze he no longer has.

“Prompto will be back shortly, I presume?”

“Yeah, he just went to grab some supplies, but he said he’d only be ten minutes or so.”

“Excellent. So he can stay with Noct whilst we focus on preparations for moving on.”

Naturally this is a good juncture for Gladio to say something, but he doesn’t. His hesitancy in answering is telling enough however.

“Uh, yeah,” he says eventually. “I’ve got a couple appointments that the first secretary has arranged for me. People who can help.”

“Excellent,” he repeats, reaching down, fingers seeking out his cane. “We'll go together.”

Gladio makes a noise, an aborted attempt at a response undoubtedly. He tries to picture Gladio's expression and gives up. He takes a deep breath, pushing down on his anger.

“Gladio. Just because I can’t see these people, doesn’t mean I have nothing to contribute. I’ve lost my sight, not my _mind_.”

It sits like a challenge between them. He grips his cane and waits. Frustratingly though, before Gladio is obliged to offer his response, the door behind them opens.

“Oh hey,” Prompto says, announcing his arrival. “You guys okay?”

“Absolutely,” he says, not waiting to see if Gladio plans on answering too. “I wanted to check on Noct. I feel better knowing he has a good friend here for him.”

“You know it,” Prompto says brightly, evidently recognising the compliment for what it is.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been more helpful these past few days.”

“What? Hey, Ignis, don’t apologise!” Prompto sounds taken aback. “You needed to heal. It’s good to see you up and looking your usual sharp self though.”

He smiles. “Thank you, Prompto. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

When it’s clear Gladio isn’t going to contribute to his particular topic, Prompto says, “Oh hey, don’t you have appointments?”

It’s impossible to know who Prompto has addressed this question to, so he waits to see what Gladio's answer will be. There’s a shuffle of boots on carpet and he can almost feel Gladio's resignation.

“Uh yeah. Me and Iggy are going to meet with some people who should be able to help us get to Gralea. You okay staying with Noct?”

“Yeah, totally.”

Ignis nods, getting to his feet and putting his cane out to make an exploratory sweep of the area to the side of the chair.

“Should we be going then, Gladio?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah.” Gladio replies before addressing their companion. “Call me if you need us, okay?”

“Will do.”

Following along with this conversation, he doesn’t realise Gladio has moved next to him, and he flinches when the other man's hand comes to rest on his arm.

“Sorry,” Gladio says, destroying his hope that Gladio hadn’t noticed the jump.

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” he replies, giving a quick smile. “It’s simply a process of adjustment.”

He tries to pretend Gladio and Prompto aren’t exchanging glances at this point.

“Well, I think you’re doing amazingly.” Prompto, as always, is the one who makes everything right again. “Isn’t he, Gladio?”

“Yeah,” Gladio replies softly. The hand resting on his arm squeezes slightly, which is reassuring.

“Thank you.”

They move, coordinated steps taking them back to the door. Once again, he focuses on making sense of what he can hear as they walk through the hotel together and out into the city. The streets are busier than they were last time he was out with Prompto, but there’s still that same muted atmosphere that colours their journey. Their conversation is minimal; Gladio is concentrating on following the directions he’s been given, made more difficult by some of the streets being impassable following the destruction. Ignis doesn’t doubt that his insisting on coming has made this additionally burdensome.

On several occasions, Gladio has to steer them around obstacles, where the terrain becomes too difficult for a blind man. He can feel Gladio’s tension mounting; when they turn down a street being blocked by a man moving boxes, Gladio's voice is little more than a growl as he requests that the man clears their path. He’s polite, but the edge is clearly there that the other man needs to do as he says, and _fast_.

Eventually they reach their destination. Gladio guides him down some steps, the temperature instantly changing as they leave the Altissian sunshine behind. He listens as Gladio raps his knuckles on the door and then the subsequent sound of footsteps as someone comes to answer it.

“Marcus Morelli?” Gladio asks.

“The one and only,” comes the reply, the voice sounding as if it belongs to a man older than them both. “Please, come in.”

He walks, but only because Gladio's forward momentum pulls him along. He wants to say _stop, tell me about our surroundings. I’m literally walking into the unknown. Are we in a residence? A business premises?_ But he says nothing and Gladio does too.

He’s guided to a chair and is surprised at how relieved he is to be sitting down. They were only walking for fifteen, twenty minutes at most, but his body is aching and protesting the exertion. He thinks of them pushing on once Noct is awake, into hostile territory, and the self-doubt is like a knife slashing across his soul. He can’t do this, _he can’t—_

“Ignis?”

Too late he realises Gladio has been speaking, possibly to him or about him or about something else entirely. Instantly he’s annoyed with himself. He’s supposed to be proving that his loss of eyesight won’t hinder his ability to carry out his duties, and so far he’s making a terrible job of it. He swallows down his irritation, aware of that hot gnawing sensation growing behind his eyes. A full-blown headache cannot be far behind.

“I’m alright,” he says, waving away Gladio's concern. “Let's discuss business.”

“Can I get you gentlemen a drink?” Marcus asks, and - _superb_ \- he also sounds like he’s expecting some sort of imminent medical emergency, begging the question of how bad he actually looks. They both reply in the negative; presumably Gladio wants this over as quickly as he does.

“Very well. The first secretary tells me you need to transport a vehicle by rail?”

“Yeah,” Gladio responds.

“Where is it currently?”

“We have a boat docked. It’s in the hold.”

“What sort of size are we talking about? I’m guessing it’s not small if a man of your stature can fit in it.”

Gladio laughs politely and the conversation continues, for all the world like he’s invisible - a marble statue, head bowed, seated with his hands resting atop his cane. He listens, tries to tell himself that solely focusing on auditory information is allowing him to judge how trustworthy this supposed ally might be, but the reality is he’s not been gifted any listening superpowers following the loss of his sight. Marcus Morelli _sounds_ genuine enough, but there’s always the possibility he could be wrong.

The arrangements are made and costs agreed when he says, “might I ask a question?” The sound of movement, of bodies making to stand, halts abruptly. He pictures an exchange of glances. Maybe they’d forgotten he was even here.

“Of course,” Marcus replies.

“How many locomotives would normally be used?”

“For that journey, two.”

“Positioned front and back?”

“Yes.”

He ponders this for a moment, prompting Gladio to say, “Iggy?”

“Is that a problem?” Marcus asks.

“Potentially. Since we will be heading into hostile territory, it would be advantageous for us to be able to both access and remove the vehicle with extreme haste. If your freight car is accessed at the end rather than the side, which I presume would be the case for loading something of the Regalia's dimensions, then having a locomotive behind it would prove time consuming if we needed to get away quickly.”

“Uh yeah,” Gladio says after a moment. “That’s a really good point.”

“We can sort that,” Marcus answers. “The second engine's needed for the gradient, but there’s no problem locating it in the middle. You’d just need to ride in second part of the train so you could get back there quickly.”

“That’s easy enough,” he says with a nod. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Morelli.”

They all shake hands and go to leave, but Gladio doesn’t automatically move to his side. He hesitates to ask for assistance in front of another person, instead settling the cane in his grip and moving it experimentally in front of him, but with no information about where they actually are, the tip collides with unknown objects whichever way he turns it. The final thud is dull and, too late, he realises it’s someone's leg.

“Oh,” he exclaims, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s quite alright.”

Typical, it wasn’t even Gladio he managed to hit. There's the sound of booted feet moving closer and then Gladio's hand drops onto his arm.

“Sorry,” Gladio says guiltily.

“It’s quite alright,” he replies sharply, not intending for it to sound as irritated as it does. He brings the cane closer to his body and hooks his fingers around the crook of Gladio's elbow. With that minor issue rectified, they set off.

Only once they’re alone outside does Gladio say, “you doin' okay, Iggy?”

He wants to say, _not really, no_. He wants to say, _you don’t believe I can do this_. He wants to say, _I’m scared Gladio, and I need to know you’re there for me_. But instead he finds a smile and nods, ignoring how even that slight action intensifies the pain behind his eyes.

“I'm fine, Gladio, really. I simply need practice at navigating the world without sight.” Then, carefully, so it doesn’t sound accusatory, “If you describe a little about where we are it’ll help me work out what potential obstacles there might be.”

“Sorry,” Gladio says. “My mind was elsewhere. Guess I’m not used to doing all the planning.”

“We all have our roles to play.” He smiles, buoyed by the thought that Gladio can maybe see a place for him after all, even if he’s not thrilled about it.

“Yeah. Look, if you wanna go back to the hotel at all, just say.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats. “Where to next?”

OoOoO

Turns out Gladio has lined up several more errands and meetings that take up the best part of the day. Gladio checks in with Prompto on several occasions, but Noct is still sleeping and Prompto's happy to stay with him. They grab some lunch in between appointments, but as delicious as the food surely is, he’s contending with pain now engulfing his entire head. If Gladio notices how he clenches his jaw at times to withstand the worst of it he never says. Their conversation when they’re alone is stilted and awkward and Gladio has given up on asking if he’s okay, since he only ever gets the same answer. Despite the fact that he's spending the entire day in direct contact with Gladio, he’s never felt further apart from the other man.

“Okay,” Gladio says, pulling him from his efforts at controlling the nausea now coming in waves. He bitterly regrets not bringing any painkillers, but he’s not about to make Gladio aware that he needs them. “We just need to go and speak to Cid.” Gladio pauses. “Or I could take you back to the hotel first?”

“No need,” he says, his smile increasingly tight. “I’ll come with you.”

“If you’re sure.” Gladio's voice makes it patently clear that he can see the toll this day is taking on him, but he hesitates again. When he speaks again, his voice is soft and filled with concern. “You look tired, Iggy.”

“I can assure you I’m fine, Gladio. We won’t be much longer and I’ll retire straight to bed once we're back.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He tries to read something into that comment - innuendo, affection - _anything_ other than the flat note of doubt that colours Gladio's words. Despite all this time together, they’ve never once spoken about his injuries or what that means to them going forward. There’s been ample opportunity. He tells himself it’s because Gladio hasn’t completely made his mind up about sending him away; that although Gladio knows it will be difficult, he realises the benefits of having him with them outweigh the issues.

“Come on,” Gladio says, ignoring another opportunity to break bad news if he has it. “Let's go see Cid and then we can get back.”

OoOoO

As they arrive at the docks, he’s hit by a powerful wave of memories. He pictures himself, less than two weeks ago as they’d first arrived in Altissia. How different things were. How many things he’d just taken for granted. Altissia had held the promise of so many things. Noct's marriage to Lunafreya when life had seemed less complicated, then the hope of securing the covenant with Leviathan after Insomnia had fallen. Over the years he’s considered the possibility that he might lose his life in service to the crown, but never has he thought he would be in the position he is now, still here, but having lost so much.

“Iggy?” Gladio says softly. “Are you okay?”

He realises he’s stopped, his feet planting themselves on the docks and moving him no further. Consciously, he loosens his grip on both his cane and Gladio's arm. He’d not anticipated feeling this way, but his emotions are understandably volatile. He breathes, then raises his head, determined to do this.

“My apologies. I was just thinking about our journey here.” He smiles, unable to prevent the bitterness that pervades both his expression and his next words. “How quickly things can change. But come on,” he says quickly before Gladio can respond. “Let's go and see Cid.”

Somehow he pushes aside the pounding in his skull to concentrate on utilising the mental map he has of the boat. This turns out to be a much-needed bolster to his confidence and by the time they locate Cid, he's using the cane and has relinquished the purchase on Gladio’s arm for the first time that day.

“Howdy boys,” Cid says as they approach. Above the sea breeze, he can detect the smell of motor oil, so synonymous with the elderly mechanic. “Good to see you up an' about, boy. I was sorry to hear about your injuries.”

“Thank you,” he replies, grateful for the other man's words. “I trust you stayed safe during the battle?”

“I did. Thanks to Weskham.” There’s a sound he realises is Cid patting a nearby surface. “I’m just happy this old girl made it through unscathed.”

“Indeed.”

It’s probably the motion of the boat on top of his already ailing body, but the nausea surfaces afresh and for a moment, he thinks he might be sick.

“Gentlemen,” he says quickly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom.”

“Do you need any help?” Gladio asks, from beside him.

He waves away the concern, righting the cane in his grip. “No need. I know the layout well enough.”

It’s true, he does, and he navigates his way below deck without incident. When he finds the bathroom, he lets himself in and locks the door. It takes several minutes resting against the countertop until the urge to vomit passes. Maybe he should go and find somewhere to sit for a few minutes, just until he can restore his equilibrium enough to deal with whatever planning they need to do with Cid. He takes his cane and lets himself out of the bathroom. Across the corridor he recalls a small living area for use when poor weather would prevent them from sitting above deck. He feels for the door and finds it open.

The seats are wonderfully comfortable and he sinks into the first one he finds with a low groan. Today has been too much, he can admit it to himself, even if he can’t say it out loud. He allows his head to drop back to rest on the seat back. It supports his pounding skull and, with the boat's gentle rocking motion, he thinks he could fall asleep here.

It takes him a moment to realise that he can hear voices - Cid and Gladio’s - drifting from somewhere close by. Cid isn’t shouting by any means, but he’s clearly angry about something. They’ve obviously moved to this side of the vessel to avoid him overhearing whatever it is they’re discussing, not knowing he had moved from the bathroom. So it’s about him then.

He focuses his attention on their voices, working to incrementally filter out both the sounds of the boat and the incessant drumbeat of the headache that has built steadily throughout the day.

“—but you were supposed to tell him! Son, you’re playin' a dangerous game with that boy's state o'mind! He’s had a terrible thing happen to him; somethin' the likes of you and me can’t begin to understand. Ya gotta be straight with him and y'ain't because you already know what it is he wants. Is it really so impossible to take him with you?”

There’s a silence before Gladio replies. He sounds weary.

“How _can_ he come, Cid? We're guaranteed to run into trouble and he can’t protect himself. I’m Noct's shield - how can I protect him if I’m constantly lookin' out for Ignis?”

“Maybe Ignis doesn’t want ya to look out for him? Have ya even _spoken_ to him about it?”

Enough. He can’t listen to them talking about him like he’s a _possession_ , to be picked up and discarded whenever it suits. He stumbles to his feet, wanting to be away from this quarrel, because if he stays he won’t be able to stop himself from listening in and his self-esteem is currently too fragile to withstand any further blows.

His cane taps along the wall, as he heads away from the direction he came. He doesn’t want to risk going back above deck even though the odds are Gladio will probably come and look for him if he’s gone too long, so instead he heads deeper into the bowels of the craft.

The temperature is cooler still down here as he carefully descends the steps. Even though he knows the layout well, he’s not thinking about where he’s going until his cane bumps into something almost as soon as he’s cleared the last step. Too late, he realises what it is.

The Regalia.

They've been talking about the logistics of transporting this vehicle all day, and yet now he is standing beside her, his hand reaching out reverently to touch her sleek, cool bodywork, it hits him that his life has changed forever.

He follows her sharp lines around the side until his hand comes to rest on the door handle. His mouth is dry as he opens the door and slides behind the steering wheel, soothed somewhat by the familiar feel of her impossibly comfortable leather seats. They can all drive, yet the duties have almost exclusively fallen to him since they left Insomnia. Not that he minds. The open roads beyond the crown city have held an unwavering appeal for him. The glorious views, sights he’d only ever seen in books before.

 _Sights_.

His breath catches in his throat. Never will he see those sights again - even just in books they are now denied to him. He moves to rest his head against the steering wheel, mindful of his scars. He pictures himself in the same pose, when the Regalia had broken down just outside of Hammerhead. It feels like a lifetime ago. He swallows hard.

The car itself holds a wealth of memories. Of Regis himself assuring him that he was a competent driver and could take control of this, his prized possession. Of Noct and Prompto, talking and laughing in the back as he ferries them around the city. And of Gladio, larger than life beside him in the passenger seat, expression shifting nervously as he’d leaned over and kissed him for the first time.

He’s lost his sight and in burning away his most important sense, Ardyn has taken everything from him. He’s an advisor who can no longer advise, and to Gladio he’s a burden. Four days ago, he woke into this nightmare and now he has nothing. Inside him something breaks and he gasps, the burning sensation behind his eyes reaching an unbearable crescendo. His reserves depleted, he succumbs to the panic of this inescapable blackness. He wants to run, hands out blindly in front of him until he crashes through a door into the bright sunshine where everything will be okay. But there’s no door, nor will there ever be. Tears start to flow, cutting a path down his cheeks. It’s a cruel irony that he can still cry when his eyes no longer work, but he's helpless in the face of this uncharacteristic need for release.

He sobs until his chest burns, resting against the wheel of a car he will never drive again. His fist slams against the leather as he howls in outrage at how much has been taken from him. He doesn’t realise Gladio has come down the stairs looking for him, doesn’t know that the other man is standing there, his expression devastated.

All he knows is that Gladio is right; he’s no business trying to stay with Noct. He's no good to anyone anymore.

It’s over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone still reading this story, please accept my humblest apologies that this update is so overdue. I’d wanted this story done and dusted before Episode Ignis was released, but I have been typically distracted by other things. I do have several other stories to show for the time I was slacking on this one though. ;)
> 
> Thank you for your continued support. It means the world. <3


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